Ralph Compton The Saltwater Trail

By Jackson Lowry and Ralph Compton

When the money dries up, a wrangler looks toward the Pacific for new opportunity in the latest installment of Ralph Compton's bestselling Trail Drive series.

Clay Forsythe never even knew there was such a thing as a paniolo—a Hawaiian cowboy—before two of them save his life. But when he meets Jose Vasquez and Leo Suarez he quickly realizes two things: they're talented and worldly—Clay's never even seen the ocean. 

With no job offers on the horizon, things aren't going as well for Clay as they are for the paniolo. So when the pair offer him a job helping them drive new breeding stock to the coast, he sees no reason to decline. But there is a long way to go before they hit the saltwater trail to Hawaii. 

And not everyone wants the to see Barker Ranch prosper; in fact, they'll do almost anything to stop the trio. But Clay and the paniolos aren't to be trifled with. If they can get the herd to their safe patch of land along the coast, it'll be smooth sailing after—and Clay vows that he'll get them there, come hell or high water.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
• Release date: Jan 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9780593334102

Book preview

THE IMMORTAL COWBOY

This is respectfully dedicated to the American Cowboy. His was the saga sparked by the turmoil that followed the Civil War, and the passing of more than a century has by no means diminished the flame.

True, the old days and the old ways are but treasured memories, and the old trails have grown dim with the ravages of time, but the spirit of the cowboy lives on.

In my travels—to Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Arizona—I always find something that reminds me of the Old West. While I am walking these plains and mountains for the first time, there is this feeling that a part of me is eternal, that I have known these old trails before. I believe it is the undying spirit of the frontier calling me, through the mind’s eye, to step back into time. What is the appeal of the Old West of the American frontier?

It has been epitomized by some as the dark and bloody period in American history. Its heroes—Crockett, Bowie, Hickok, Earp—have been reviled and criticized. Yet the Old West lives on, larger than life.

It has become a symbol of freedom, when there was always another mountain to climb and another river to cross; when a dispute between two men was settled not with expensive lawyers, but with fists, knives, or guns. Barbaric? Maybe. But some things never change. When the cowboy rode into the pages of American history, he left behind a legacy that lives within the hearts of us all.

—Ralph Compton

CHAPTER ONE

bull head

He’s coughing up blood again. You think he’ll last ’til we get to Bozeman?" Clayton Forsythe looked out of the corner of his eye at their suffering boss, Henry Oakes. The old man bent double and leaned away from his wranglers to hide how close he came to hawking up a lung in his latest bout with consumption.

Ain’t nuthin’ we kin do ’bout it, other ’n bury him, the trail boss said in a low voice. That’s a damned shame, too. I’ve worked for him nigh on eight years. Last year was bad out on the trail right after we left Colorado, but this year? Vic Reedy shook his head. He’s been bad the whole way.

It’s looking a lot like the end of the trail for him, Clay said slowly.

He hadn’t expected working for the Rocking O to be his life’s work. This late in the year, the best he’d expected was to leave the trail hands in Bozeman, get a list of Montana ranchers and farmers willing to put up a cowboy for a few weeks during the winter before he’d have to move along to the next homestead. A few chores, maybe a dollar or two, and most homesteaders were eager to see a man willing to sleep in the barn and not disturb the family too much. Life during the fierce Montana winters was never easy, and an extra hand often meant the difference between freezing to death and seeing the spring sunshine.

If he had any luck, Clay hoped to find a farmer unable to get around the way he used to. A man with a gimpy leg or a sore shoulder wasn’t as likely to chase off a cowboy looking to help out. He smiled a bit grimly. Now and then there was even a pretty young daughter of just the right age and inclination to burrow down with in the hay during long, frigid nights.

You’d better count on it. This is the last Rocking O herd. Mr. Oakes will get good money for it, but it all has to go back into the ranch.

For his son?

Reedy snorted contemptuously and shook his head.

He’ll drink it all up. You saw how he was, and you’d just blowed in a couple weeks before we started the drive.

I hoped, Clay said, that he was on a bender to celebrate.

He pushed his broad-brimmed tan Stetson back and wiped the sweat on his forehead. For this time of the year, it was mighty warm. It was way too early for the Chinooks to be blowing, though there was no disputing the hot air gusting around them at the moment. Such a fickle wind made the cattle real nervous.

Most all of us hoped Soused Sully’d amount to more than a hill of beans. Ain’t happenin’. No, sir, not happenin’. He’ll drink away the Rocking O inside a year. Before spring maybe since I heard tell he’d taken up with the youngest Snider girl. She’s a peck of trouble, and she’s hardly seventeen.

Clay ignored the trail boss as he rambled on about the woman’s lack of morals and her interest in picking Henry Oakes’ bones clean. Clay had drifted in from over in Nebraska, found nothing in Denver and crossed the Front Range into Middle Park, hunting for work. Henry Oakes had rounded up close to five hundred head of cattle, mostly his but also including a fair number of strays wandering the range, just begging to have a brand pressed into their bovine flanks.

He hitched up his gun belt and looked hard at the rancher. Blood trickled down his chin from his mouth and nose. Oakes’ ashen face told the story. This was a dead man riding along at the head of the herd, too stubborn to die in the saddle. Force of will carried a man only so far. It was now a matter of when the rancher passed on, not if.

Clay took off his Stetson and ran his fingers through long, lank black hair, then shook his head around enough to let the hot wind dry him off.

Should I see if there’s anything I can do for him? Clay asked the trail boss, anxious when Oakes hawked up a bloody gob and sprayed it like a shotgun blast.

You’re no medicine man, and I don’t remember seein’ you walk on water.

Nope, Clay said, smiling at the memory. They’d crossed a river—he never even heard its name—and he had been swept away. If Reedy hadn’t spotted him and used his lariat, Clay figured he’d still be washing down the river. Or his corpse would. The trail hands had joshed him about how Reedy had snared himself a fish and Clay was lucky he didn’t get tossed back for being too small.

Clay had learned a long time back not to let such joking about his diminutive height chew at him. He stood five foot five in his Mexican leather boots and was as sturdy as they come. There wasn’t a man on the drive he hadn’t bested arm wrestling. He’d even taken on Lanky Lou Larson, about the tallest, biggest man he’d ever seen, in a bout of Indian leg wrestling. Lanky Lou had had the advantage of leverage, using his long leg, but when they’d linked arms lying on the ground, raised their legs and locked at the knee, Clay knew he had the other man beat. He was stronger, had better back muscles and, with a powerful surge, had extended his short leg to send his opponent somersaulting backward.

He’d won close to five dollars on penny-ante bets that night. After that, the kidding about his size had stopped, except for a few things like being washed down the river and getting fished out by the trail boss. For once, Clay felt he fit in.

That made it a doubly damned shame about Henry Oakes. Clay could have seen fit to ride with the Rocking O crew another season or two. They were good trail hands and performed their jobs well without too much grousing. Most complaints he heard were mild and more often than not said in jest.

Leave him be, Reedy warned, reaching out to grip Clay’s brawny forearm. It’ll only make him ornery. When he gets upset, the coughin’ gets worse. Don’t rush him.

Clay understood. He tugged on his gelding’s reins and trotted off to see if the herd needed tending. Lanky Lou’s quarter horse cut back and forth in front of a steer that thought to wander off on its own. The expert cowboy slowly moved the cantankerous animal back until it once more bounced about, crowded by a dozen others.

How much longer? he called out to the open range, not expecting an answer.

Clay had to laugh when a half dozen cowboys all shouted back, When we get there!

He had never ridden this trail before, but from the look of smoke on the horizon, they weren’t more than ten miles out of Bozeman. The town produced the dark cloud from simply being there. Woodsmoke, even sooty billows from burning coal, marked their destination as surely as any X on a map.

Clay worked his side of the herd. It was as if the beeves sensed the end of the trail, the long days walking and the sparse grass coming to an end, and yearned to be penned up and fed grain. He wondered if he was any better at planning his future. The cattle wanted feed and water and not to be tromping along, no matter that their next stop was a cattle car taking them back East to a slaughterhouse. For the immediate future, they were content.

He should be, too. The only one on the drive with a definite future was Henry Oakes, and he might be dead before the cattle reached their destination.

Clay fell into a daydream, riding along, half paying attention to the cattle, as he considered where to head next. Wintering in Montana to get ready for the next season was hard. Maybe he’d turn back south and head for Mexico right away, before the winter clamped down like a vise on the mountainous terrain. There were towns just over the southern border that appealed to him. Or they had in the past. With the recent revolution, he might not be as popular there, though if he had a pocket full of silver dollars, that bought a passel of goodwill.

There it is, men, Oakes called out. He wiped the last bloody spittle off his lips with a swift pull of his sleeve. You’ll be paid by nightfall!

That brought a resounding cheer. To his surprise, Clay found himself whooping and hollering, too. The drive hadn’t been difficult, but boring routine had worn on him, as it had on all the rest. Their cook had died a week along the trail, and they’d taken turns preparing the food. For his part, Clay was tired of little more than beans for dinner, with a slab of beef alongside, and then oatmeal for breakfast. Only Lanky Lou had skill enough to make decent flapjacks, but that was all he knew how to cook. The others weren’t any better. Because the men were pulling double duty, there wasn’t time for whoever was stuck with being chef of the day to find vegetables or fruit along the trail.

It took the better part of an hour once they reached the town to herd their beeves into pens. By the time Clay had finished with his part, Henry Oakes came out of the shipping agent’s office with a large leather sack jingling with coins.

Line up, men, and collect your due. You’ve earned it. Oakes held back a cough. His hands shook a mite as he parceled out their wages. Clay took his, counted them and started to speak.

You earned it, son.

There’s a gold double eagle along with my pay.

A bonus. Oakes sighed, then shuddered. He turned rheumy eyes onto Clay and said in a voice so low, Clay wasn’t sure he heard him properly, If only you coulda been my son, things wouldn’t look so bleak for the ranch. Louder, Oakes said, Move along. I wish you luck wherever you go.

As Clay walked off so Oakes could pay off the rest of the cowboys, Vic Reedy came over and put his arm around his shoulder.

Let’s you and me wash away some of the trail dust. The Pouncing Panther Saloon’s the best.

Pouncing Panther, eh, Clay said. I like the sound of it. Are you buying?

The first round. Then you gotta buy me one. That’s the way it works. Of course, if you want to keep buyin’, I ain’t gonna tell you no!

They walked down the middle of the street, passing by the boisterous laughter and loud music echoing from a half dozen saloons. Clay wondered if Reedy had a reason for choosing the particular drinking establishment he did since all the others afforded the same allure.

The Pouncing Panther was the last in a long row, almost at the edge of town, and looked as prosperous as the others. They entered and looked around. All the tables were crowded with poker games. It took Clay only a glance at them to know his chances at any of them were slim. Each was presided over by a well-dressed man with keen eyes, quick fingers and the look of a professional card sharp. Along the wall to his right, a bored-looking woman in a stained red dress with a low-scooped neckline bent over a faro table. The gamblers across from her had the look of sex-starved miners. They stared more at the woman’s cleavage than they did at their bets or how she raked in some of their winning wagers, keeping them for the house. The few soiled doves at the rear of the saloon provided better value, or so Clay thought. The faro gamblers lost dollars or tens of dollars on every bet. They could have hired one of the other ladies for a fraction of that.

There’s a spot at the bar. Come along, old son. Let’s sample James’ newest brew.

You know the barkeep? Clay saw the stolid man behind the bar working his way from one end to the next, refilling glasses and taking money with the precision of a well-oiled machine. Clay frowned. The man looked familiar.

He’s my younger brother. But don’t expect that tightwad to stand us for a free drink. I do declare, he can squeeze a nickel so hard, the buffalo squeals in agony. Reedy pushed Clay forward.

Clay moved so his right hip turned toward the room, letting him lean on the bar with his left elbow. After such a long time on the trail, the crowd made him uneasy. He wasn’t a gunman with lightning reflexes, but he knew his accuracy once he dragged that hogleg out of its holster was as good as any man’s.

Two shots of the real stuff, James. The bottle you keep under the bar for that no-account mayor you voted into office will do us just fine.

Don’t go ragging on Mayor Kenny, you old reprobate.

The barkeep poured two shot glasses so they brimmed with amber fluid. Just looking at the liquor made Clay’s mouth water. The only liquor on the trail was carried in the cook’s wagon for medicinal purposes. The Rocking O cowboys had honored that scrupulously, another mark of an experienced crew. Dealing with balky cattle required a sharp eye and a clear brain. Otherwise, somebody’d surely die.

How is my little brother? Reedy picked up the glass and eyed it, as if expecting to find salvation in it. Then he knocked back the shot and let out an earsplitting cry. That’s fine hoochinoo!

Clay sipped tentatively, then drank his down. The liquid burned all the way to his gullet and puddled in his belly, the warmth spreading throughout his midriff. The aches and pains of so much time in the saddle slipped away. A few more shots and they would be a long-forgotten memory.

Good, he said, his voice raspy. What’d you call it?

Vic’s harkening back to our days up in Alaska. The Tlingit Indians make firewater they call hoochinoo. This ain’t it.

No, sir, not at all. This is better, James. Much better now that you stole that old reprobate Finnigan’s secret recipe. Reedy smacked his lips in appreciation. You say Kenny’s not been strung up for robbin’ the town treasury yet?

Clay took another shot and let the crowd of others working to the bar move him away from Vic Reedy and the homecoming with his brother. From the sound of it, the Reedy family had the town in a bear hug. The saloon keeper, the town mayor, maybe others all hailed from the same parents. If the Rocking O disbanded here, Vic would be among his kin.

Clay had been a drifter so long, he hardly remembered where to call home. For someone young in years, he had put a lot of miles behind him. The far horizon always beckoned, promising just a little more adventure or money or . . . what? Someone to settle down with?

He licked his lips and tasted a lingering drop of whiskey. Another shot or two would cure him of that pipe dream. He was a wrangler. A drifter. Someone always on the trail to somewhere else.

The crowd carried him away like a leaf caught in a slow-running stream. He was content enough to let Vic Reedy get on with his family reunion. Clay saw a couple men from the drive at the back of the saloon, negotiating with the ladies of the evening. He considered partaking of those lovely ladies’ charms, too. It got mighty lonely out on the drive, riding night herd, singing to the cattle to keep them soothed. The daytime chores weren’t any less lonesome, and this trail drive had been doubly so since they had been shorthanded. He had done the work of two men, and the beeves never noticed or cared.

Lanky Lou caught sight of him and came over. Sharing a drink or two with the tall cowboy would go a ways toward chasing away the loneliness. Lou was someone, other than Reedy, that Clay had gotten along well with out on the trail.

Come on and join us, Forsythe, the tall cowboy invited. We got about the purtiest little fillies in Bozeman waitin’ fer us.

Clay considered.

If you weren’t so bowlegged, you’d be twice as tall, Clay said. Are those legs hollow? Let me buy you a drink and then—

I don’t think Lulu Belle’s inclined to wait. This whole place is full of gents linin’ up to find exactly what she can offer.

Clay started to answer when a whipcord-tough, weathered, thin man came over and eyed them like he was getting ready to guess their weight the way traveling carnival barkers did.

Just off the trail, you two?

Herdin’ the Rocking O brand, Lou said. Just got into town and lookin’ to have some fun.

Before you get too soused, hear me out. I’m hiring for another outfit. Good pay and you’d both be in line for a signing bonus.

Now, what might that be? Lou paid scant attention as he made eyes at Lulu Belle.

Her. I’ll hire you on and see that you and her spend the night gettin’ to know each other real good. The man’s dark eyes fixed on Lou like a snake watching a mouse. Clay felt uneasy at it. Top wages and a night with her? How can you go wrong with that?

Clay studied the man closer. He was too insistent. He wore fancy duds for a cowboy, but Clay told himself some men dressed up to come to town. What bothered him the most was the way the dark man wore the Peacemaker at his right side. The holster was tied down and the six-gun looked well used. Cowboy? Or gunfighter?

I ain’t got anythin’ else to do now that we’re at the end of the trail, said Lou. Nothin’ but corralin’ Lulu.

If you sign on with my outfit, you can collect the bonus right now. It looks as if she’s hankerin’ as much for you as you are for her. The dark man turned.

Clay tensed for a split second. He thought the man was going to throw down on him. His hand rested on the ebony butt of his six-shooter and he bent forward slightly, balancing on the balls of his feet.

You in, too? She’s got a friend just itching to spend time with you.

Got other plans, Clay lied. I wasn’t looking to sign on with another outfit just yet. Which one are you recruiting for? A local rancher?

Not local, the man said.

Not interested, then, Clay replied.

However the man answered, Clay was inclined to dodge the opposite way. He put enough edge into his words that the man couldn’t miss the rejection. Again Clay thought the man was going to draw. Instead he laughed. There was enough mockery that Clay took half a step back.

Come along, my good man, the recruiter said, putting his arm around Lou’s bony shoulders. I just might join you. It’d be a shame to let her friend pine away all alone.

Clay, you sure? Lou looked back at his old trail companion as his new boss guided him to the rear of the saloon where the girls waited. It’d be good to ride with you again.

Clay lifted his glass in salute. Then Lanky Lou found himself engaged with Lulu Belle and ignoring everything else in the world. They slipped out the rear, going toward a row of cribs behind the saloon. Clay felt as if he should stop Lou, and he didn’t know why. The Rocking O had paid them off. There weren’t horses to drive back south into Colorado. The job was over.

That job was over, but Clay found that the drinking had just begun when Vic Reedy and his brother waved for him to rejoin them. Dawn cracked the sky by the time he’d had enough of the tarantula juice that James Reedy had concocted.

CHAPTER TWO

bull head